


Who Got Inside Your Mind?

by SOMETHINREAL



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Misunderstandings, Running Away, but it's not incredibly sad i promise, it's implicit but minghao isn't entirely mentally healthy, it's resolved quickly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 20:15:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14027919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SOMETHINREAL/pseuds/SOMETHINREAL
Summary: Junhui thought Minghao was beautiful before he left. He hates himself for thinking he's beautiful after the fact as well.(alternatively: minghao disappears out of nowhere and all he leaves junhui is a love note).





	Who Got Inside Your Mind?

**Author's Note:**

> aaaa okok so their ages are changed here; minghao is 19 and junhui is 22 turning 23 later in the year (a three year difference). there isn't really much else !! hope u enjoy!

Junhui is lying awake in bed. It’s eleven past three, the sun is still asleep and the world isn’t close to being awake yet. But Junhui is. It isn’t a rarity, for him to be lying awake like this, his eyes heavy with exhaustion but the cogs in his brain just continuing to turn, just keeping him begging the question _why_?

He asks himself this question quite frequently, but it never seems to be answered. He’d stopped vocalizing it awhile back, realizing that the useless answer of _because_ that he would get in return would never be good enough for him. He still, however, asks himself this question daily, though he never gets a definitive answer. _Why do people run away? Why can’t they stay? Why is it that the world never seems to be able to answer his questions?_

It’s been forty-seven days since Minghao left. Junhui probably should be over it by now, he supposes, because he’s sure Minghao is at this point. Maybe he would have been over it if there had been any reason as to _why_ Minghao left, but there weren’t. Just an empty space beside him and a love note. An apology, of sorts.

 _Dearest Junhui,_ it had read, _please don’t blame me for this. I can’t tell you why, and I may not ever be able to tell you why, so there really is no point in asking. I know that you always loved asking. I think that the answers to all of your questions lies beneath, and you will find the answer with a little digging. Please don’t try and find me. I’m sorry.  
_ _—Minghao_

 _Pathetic._ It was pathetic the way that Junhui had scoured the whole of Suzhou for Minghao. The letter had said not to try and find him, so why had Junhui gone and tried to do just that? Because he loves Minghao, of course. Junhui has never been one to let go of the things he loves so easily. This is probably his problem. He needs to learn to let things go, which is what his parents and teachers and colleagues and friends have been telling him since he was six and the pet frog he’d found in the park ran away, but it isn’t easy when he loves something as much as he does Minghao.

This is also his problem. He _loves_ Minghao. It’s been a month and a week and Junhui is still so head over heels for Minghao that he can’t even comprehend it, even after he left. It’s sad, pathetic, he doesn’t even want to admit it anymore. Minghao was beautiful. Minghao _is_ beautiful, even if his actions aren’t. He was so different than everyone else, always thinking the complete opposite of all the people around him, yet somehow still managing to get everything right. He would have these little things about him; the stray hairs that wouldn’t straighten no matter how hard he tried, the mole by his ear, the acne scars on his cheeks, the way his voice got higher when he lied. He was so beautiful. Junhui hates that he still thinks so, even after he left.

Whatever that was is clearly Minghao’s way of ending things, so Junhui should suck it up and get over it, right?

Not right.

Not when all of Minghao’s clothes are still hanging in Junhui’s closet. Not when he still eats the cereal that Minghao made them stock up on. Not when there’s still stains from when Minghao dyed his hair red in the pillowcases. _Especially_ not when everything reminds Junhui of Minghao.

He can’t look at literature the same way anymore, because of Minghao who was good with his words, and Minghao who always knew too much about old books that people were shocked he wasn’t actually a century old. He can’t have tulips in the house anymore because they were Minghao’s favourite and it doesn’t feel right. Hell, Junhui can hardly get up and dance anymore, because Minghao loves to dance and it isn’t the same making their duets into solos.

Sometimes Junhui will stay up and stare at his phone as if a text will come through, telling him _I’m sorry, I’ll come back_ , but it never happens. He doesn’t even know why he hopes for it anymore— if anything like that was going to happen it would have been weeks ago.

The biggest problem here is that Junhui doesn’t know why Minghao left. If he’d had closure, perhaps he wouldn’t be like this; alone in his bed at three in the morning, thinking about things he can’t change. They had _everything_ together, they never fought, always talked things through, they confided in each other— or so Junhui thought. If all of these things were in play, then what made Minghao leave? This, Junhui thinks, is going to be added onto his list of questions left unanswered. The list is fast-growing and never depleting, filled with questions that _can’t_ be answered, _won’t_ be answered, or don’t _want_ to be answered. These questions seem to be the ones that Junhui asks the most.

 

-

 

It’s four fifty-three when a text chimes, the sound loud in Junhui’s silent room. He’s still awake, unable to sleep due to overthinking and existentialism. He doesn’t have work today anyways. He can take a nap. He almost doesn’t look at it, because it’s late and he has a reason _not_ to look at it, but he still does. It’s Minghao. _It’s Minghao_. Junhui’s heart stops in his chest, throat running dry, head getting light, it’s real. _It’s real_. _It’s really him_. Junhui can hardly fucking breathe.

 _Do you hate me?_ the text reads, and it’s not the way that Minghao usually texts, but it’s been so long that informality shouldn’t be expected.

Why? Why is this happening? Junhui should be happy, but he can’t help but wonder why Minghao is doing this. It doesn’t make sense, after all, he left. That was a pretty big _fuck you, I don’t love you anymore_ , if Junhui’s ever seen one, so why, _why_ is Minghao coming back?

Junhui doesn’t hate Minghao. He probably should, because Minghao broke his heart, but he doesn’t. He could never hate Minghao. Not when Minghao’s intentions were always good, even if they didn’t seem that way. Not when it’s so selfish of him to still be holding onto Minghao like this. Not when he’s sure it’s somehow his fault.

 _No_ , he writes back, _I don’t hate you, Minghao._

It takes another minute before Minghao responds.

_You should._

_I can’t,_ he answers.

 

-

 

Minghao doesn’t respond until the next day. It’s nine o’seven, the sun has set and Junhui’s just finished a bowl of ramen. He had class today, but he couldn’t focus when his mind was screaming _Minghao, Minghao, Minghao, Minghao_ so loud that he was sure everyone else could hear it too. Minghao probably shouldn’t answer. He still does. Junhui appreciates it.  

 _I don’t want you to forgive me_ , he writes.

 _I don’t_ , Junhui writes back, waiting five minutes and fifty three seconds—he’s counting—before responding. He doesn’t want to seem like he’s been waiting for Minghao after all.

 _Have you moved on?_ Minghao asks.

_How truthful do you want my response to be?_

_Lie._ Minghao writes.

 _Entirely_ , Junhui responds.

Read, 9:21 pm.

 _Downstairs_ , Minghao writes. _Only if you mean it._

 _Only if you’re sure,_ he adds after a minute.

Junhui has never been more sure of anything in his entire life.

 

*

 

There’s nothing Minghao regrets more than leaving. He has a reason, whether it’s valid or not, he isn’t sure, but he wishes that he’d never left in the first place. So many things could have been avoided if he had.

It’s cold; the rain is pounding down against his skin heavily, soaking through all of his clothes and making his hair stick down to his forehead and little drips of dye run down his neck. He’s sat on the staircase of Junhui’s apartment, waiting for Junhui to come down, even though it hurts.

There are footsteps behind him. It’s Junhui—he can tell from the clack of his boots and his uneven breathing that it’s him. Now that he’s here everything seems so much harder. He doesn’t want to turn and look at Junhui; it’d be over then, Minghao would break down and knowing Junhui, he would too and they’d never be able to get a word in, let alone an apology. Minghao doesn’t want him to give forgiveness, because Minghao doesn’t deserve it and he knows it, admitting it is just as easy.

Minghao can hear that Junhui’s breath is quivering, can tell that he’s going to cry soon, _knows_ that it’s his fault. He’s never wanted to be the bad guy, Minghao just tries too hard and thinks too much and ends up breaking things in the process.

“Why?” Junhui asks. It’s a broken, wobbly question, and quiet, too, but Minghao can still hear him over the pouring rain. “Why wasn’t I enough to keep you here?”

No, no, no, that was never it. He had always been too much, too good for Minghao. He had learned a long time ago that good things didn’t last. Junhui was enough, he _is_ enough, Minghao simply overthinks things.

“Why did you leave?”

“I’m sorry,” Minghao tells him, and he knows it’s not enough, but apologizing has never been his strong suit.

“No,” Junhui says. His voice is all stern now. “Why did you leave, Minghao? I don’t need your apology, I just need an answer. Did you fall out of love? Or were you never in love to begin with?”

“No,” Minghao says, “no, that was never it, gē, I’m too _in_ love, that’s the problem.”

“Stand up,” Junhui orders. It’s soft now, but still commanding. Minghao does as told, like he always does, letting his shoulders fall as he listens to Junhui sigh. “Turn around, Minghao.”

Minghao doesn’t like how tired Junhui looks. There are deep bags under his eyes, he looks more hollow, too. Has it been that long? What happened to the happy, lively Junhui that Minghao knew? Has he done this?

“Tell me what you mean by that. Tell me why you left, Hao, please.” Minghao can see that Junhui’s eyes are glassy, can see each crease where his eyebrows furrow, can see the quiver in his lip, the tremble in his hands; balled up in fists by his side.

“I love you too much,” Minghao tells him, “that’s why I left. You’re older than me, you’ve had more experience, I’m a clumsy teenager, Junhui. I don’t know the first thing about love. All I know is you. I knew that you would get tired of me— of _this_ eventually. I left to make it easier for both of us.”

It’s quiet; Minghao still stands soaking wet in the storm, clothes quickly becoming more and more drenched by the second, where Junhui stands under the overhang, almost completely untouched by the rain. He tilts his head at Minghao: sad.

“Is that what you think?” he asks, “that I’ll get tired of you because you’re not as experienced? That’s why you ran away?” Minghao nods gently at him. “Minghao, I’ll never get tired of you. You make me so happy. Why would I get tired of something that makes my day better?”

The arms that snake their way around his waist are warm, just like the strong chest he’s pulled into. It all feels so good against his cold skin, the warmth washing over him in waves, dispersed, but so fucking good. He noses at the centre of Junhui’s chest, tears of his own brimming his eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” he sniffles quietly, “please never forgive me for this. It was so stupid.”

“I don’t forgive you,” Junhui says, “but that doesn’t mean I’m mad at you.” He begins to run his fingers through Minghao’s mop of sopping wet curls, ringing them out and calming Minghao’s tears. “Why don’t you come upstairs?” he adds after a second. Minghao only nods.

 

-

 

Junhui’s clothes have always been warm. They’ve always been a size too big on Minghao, always hanging below were they’re supposed to end, but Minghao still appreciates it all anyways. If anything, he likes this the most about stealing Junhui’s clothes. Much alike his clothes, Junhui’s apartment has always been warm. Perhaps, not necessarily the _temperature_ , but more so the _homeliness_ of the entire place. It gives Minghao a sense of warmth, as opposed to a literal feel of it.

Minghao is curled up on Junhui’s couch, in one of Junhui’s tracksuits and under a thick blanket, with a towel wrapped around his head to catch the water dripping from his hair. He’s nursing a tea that Junhui had made for him. His face is still red from crying. Junhui is sat beside him, under his own blanket, sipping his own tea. A movie plays on the television, but neither of them are really paying attention.

They’re too on edge to be paying attention. Everything _seems_ normal, but they both know that beneath it all it isn’t. There’s something off about the situation, an elephant in the room that hangs heavy in the air but won’t be discussed. Not for now, at least.

“Where did you go?” Junhui asks after a while, when their teas had been drank and mugs were put on the glass coffee table, courtesy of IKEA. The movie is halfway over and the protagonist has just found herself in quite the situation, but neither of them care. “When you left, I mean. Where did you go?”

Minghao takes a moment in responding. He doesn’t look at Junhui, whether it’s out of guilt or sadness or simply a lack of caring, Junhui doesn’t know, but his voice is small when he responds.

“Here and there,” he says, “I’m only nineteen, so I clearly couldn’t do much.”

“How did you get by?” Junhui asks, because Minghao _is_ only nineteen and money doesn’t grow on trees.

“My mom set me up a trust fund when I was sixteen. I rented out a motel across the city for a while, then bussed out to see her as an excuse to leave. I couldn’t stay there forever, and my bank account was steadily depleting. I needed to come back eventually, whether I wanted to or not. I did, by the way. What are the odds that I still have my job?"

Junhui thinks that it’s Minghao’s way of making a joke out of the situation but he doesn’t laugh at it. Minghao doesn’t either. “I’m really sorry.” Minghao turns his head then, and his eyes are all red, like he’s going to start crying but knows that it’ll just be a trainwreck from there, so he keeps the tears back with all his might so maybe, maybe things won’t get so bad.

Junhui can hear the truth in his words and he doesn’t like the look in his eyes. “I know,” Junhui says. And he does.

“I wish that I’d never ran, Junhui. I wish that I had never left without anything but a note. I wish that my stupid brain didn’t make me question the things that shouldn’t be questioned like how much you loved me— _if_ you even love me anymore. I just wish that I had done things differently.”

The protagonist onscreen is running on a beach with the love of her life, grinning and laughing, a contrast to Minghao, whose cheeks are rosy and wet with tears.

“I know,” Junhui says. And he _does. “_ And I do. I still love you Minghao.”

“I hurt you so much, gē. I left to try and save the both of our hearts but I broke them in the process. I don’t know why you still even care.” Minghao takes the towel off his head. It’s got spots of brown on it from were Minghao’s recent dyejob had been leaking out. His hair is still damp with rainwater when it falls against his forehead.

“I care about you, Minghao. Plain and simple. You leaving wasn’t going to change any of that. Did it suck? Yeah, it fucking hurt a lot and it’ll probably take a while for things to get back to what they used to be, but will I hold it against you? Not a fucking chance. This is just a bump, okay? It isn’t a full stop, so don’t treat it like one.” Junhui’s voice isn’t harsh when he says this, it’s soft, assertive, letting Minghao know that he wouldn’t be shunned for his wrongdoings. Minghao nods at him and Junhui opens his arms. “Come here,” he says.

Minghao’s legs overlap Junhui’s when he crawls into his lap, and his arms wrap themselves around his midsection, nose poking at the centre of his chest. “I’m sorry,” he says, but they’re both sure it’s half because he really means it and half to fill the silence.

“Stop apologizing,” Junhui tells him, “it’s done. I’m not mad at you, I’ll never be mad at you for this.” Minghao nods against his chest, his eyelashes fluttering against the hollow of Junhui’s throat. “We can work through this, okay? I just need a little time. Everything will go back to normal, Minghao, but for now, let’s just watch the film.”

Junhui presses a kiss to the top of his head to reassure him. “I love you,” Minghao says, but it’s muffled by Junhui’s chest.

“Your hair is still wet,” Junhui says through a chuckle. Minghao only giggles back. “I love you, too,” he adds, then, “promise me you’ll never run away again.”

“I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> [twt](http://twitter.com/hfkyounghyun)


End file.
